


The Unity of Grief

by AuroraNova



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 11:33:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15629841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraNova/pseuds/AuroraNova
Summary: This is not how Worf wanted to meet Jadzia's mother. Post-WYLB.





	The Unity of Grief

**Author's Note:**

> We never got any of Jadzia's family, so I decided to write my own scene. This has been languishing on my computer for years as I hoped maybe it would form part of a bigger story which is clearly never going to happen, so I decided to go ahead and post it more or less as-is. You might want a tissue handy.

Worf would not begin his new assignment – _diplomacy_ , he thought with the hint of a snarl – until he made this trip. He did not journey to Trill for himself, but because he knew Jadzia would have wished him to. He would meet her mother and hike along the Tenaran Ice Cliffs, a fitting memorial among her people. Jadzia had a Klingon heart, but she was Trill; with her place in Sto-vo-kor secured and the war over he felt obligated to honor her Trill heritage. She would have expected no less.

His wife’s mother had provided very precise instructions and a broad welcome in response to his initial inquiry, so he found the Idaris home with ease. Jadzia had spoken fondly of her mother’s garden, and while botany did not interest Worf in the least, he could plainly see that Parvel Idaris was a talented gardener, and he could envision his wife’s appreciation for the flora. 

It seemed peculiar to Worf for the front of a house to have no doors, but on his brief walk from the transit stop he had not seen one house with a front door. He wondered where he was supposed to enter, but that problem was solved when his wife’s mother stepped out from the side of the house. 

“Worf!”

“Alxisha’ran,” he said, hoping he had pronounced the greeting correctly. 

“Alxisha’ran,” she repeated. Then, in Federation Standard, she asked, “You speak Trill?”

“Very little.”

She seemed disappointed, but reasoned, “I suppose there wasn’t much time with the war.”

“No. Nor did Jadzia find me a gifted student.” She had cared little about his unfamiliarity with her language, but he would not tell her mother that.

“Come in. I’m so glad to finally meet you, though this isn’t how I’d wanted us to meet.”

“Nor I.” He had, of course, wanted to meet her with Jadzia and her ebullient enthusiasm.

She led him through a hallway into a large room of the kind humans called ‘living rooms.’ Worf noted several holograms on the walls, including one of Jazdia’s graduation from Starfleet Academy, their wedding portrait, and one with Jadzia and her sister as teenagers, a copy of which Jadzia had also displayed. “We will drink in Jadzia’s memory.”

Worf had tasted Trill wine only once and found it a tasteless beverage, but he nodded. She poured them each a small glass of wine, then held the glass out at arm’s length. He copied her movements.

“In honor of my daughter,” she announced.

“In honor of my wife,” he echoed, and they drank.

“I was disappointed that I couldn’t make it to your wedding,” she said, taking his glass, “but now I am glad you did not wait. You made my daughter very happy, Worf, and for that I love you.”

He did not know how to respond to that. This entire conversation was going to be against his nature.

“Would you care to visit her grave?”

“No,” he replied. Her eyes widened, and he explained, “A body means nothing after death. It is of no consequence to Klingons.” Trill, like most species, were concerned with the bodies of their dead, but Worf would find nothing truly of Jadzia at her grave. It was why he had agreed to Parvel’s request that he permit Jadzia to be buried on her homeworld. Jadzia’s body held no comfort for him, but if it eased her mother’s grief, so be it.

“How do you honor my daughter, then?” Her words held curiosity, not challenge.

“I won a great battle in her name.”

“Against the Dominion?”

“Yes. The victory secured Jadzia’s entrance to Sto-vo-kor.”

“That is the Klingon way.”

“Yes.”

“You honored her Klingon spirit. How do you honor her Trill spirit?”

He knew from Lieutenant Vorr’s death that Trill honored their dead by doing something the deceased had enjoyed. That was why Jadzia had taken surfing lessons in the holosuites after Vorr died. “I am going to hike the Tenaran Ice Cliffs.”

“A fitting tribute.” Parvel nodded in approval and pushed a stool towards him. “Sit, Worf.”

He sat stiffly while she took her own seat. He was relieved that she approved of his chosen memorial activity. Jadzia wanted to take him to hike the Tenaran Ice Cliffs after the war. Worf would not have done it without her, had he not been certain she would have expected him to honor her people’s traditions. She had honored Klingon ways in life; the least he could do was honor Trill ways as well for her death. Worf did not wish their eventual reunion in Sto-vo-kor to involve a fight over his failure to make this journey.

“Jadzia was always the scientist in the family,” said Parvel. “She was three years younger and helping with her sister’s science projects.”

“She was talented.”

“Her science was always the part of Jadzia I understood least. I honored her by learning more about the wormhole.”

Worf did not know what he was expected to say in response, so he simply stated, “Then you have done as she did. Jadzia spent many hours studying the wormhole.” 

That answer, at least, seemed to please Parvel. She swiped a tear and looked out the window. “Forgive me. There are moments when it feels as though I have just heard the news.”

“I understand,” he said. That was another thing they had in common. He reached into his bag, looking for the items he had brought for his wife’s mother.

Under Starfleet law, all of Jadzia’s possessions became his after her death. She had few of great significance; during the war she had sent her most precious belongings to her mother for safekeeping. Worf was not overly concerned with material goods, although he was bringing a few of her things with him to Qo’noS, chiefly Jadzia’s mek’leth. He had presented each of Jadzia’s friends with one of her possessions, as this was customary among most races. Colonel Kira had overseen the donation of Jadzia’s clothing to a Bajoran charity.

There were a few items left for her family. He removed a bracelet from his bag, the one Bashir had “suggested” Worf buy for Jadzia on Risa as a gesture of apology. “Jadzia told me that if we had a daughter, she would give the child this.” She had spent an entire night telling him her dreams about their children.

“She would have been a great mother.”

“Indeed.” Jadzia’s enthusiasm had even warmed Worf to the idea of having children with her, despite his concerns that he was not a good father. “I have no use for this. Perhaps her niece will.” When her sister Orille gave birth to a girl, Jadzia had been deeply disappointed that the war prevented her from visiting and meeting her new niece.

“Your niece as well, Worf.”

Jadzia linked him to so many things, even a two-year-old Trill girl he had never met. “I trust you will tell her that it belonged to Jadzia.”

“Yes,” agreed Parvel. “But when she’s older, I think she should hear the whole story from you.”

Worf nodded. He supposed an older child would be easier to talk to. And he owed it to Jadzia to oblige her family, as she would have obliged the House of Martok. “She may contact me whenever she wishes. Any of you may.”

Parvel smiled, and the smile was so like Jadzia’s that for a second Worf wasn’t sure all the chambers of his hearts were pumping. When he recovered, he handed her another item. “Her Camelot holosuite program. It should be adaptable to any holographic environment. She once said she believed her sister would enjoy it.”

“Orille will love it,” promised Parvel.

He handed a thin book to Jadzia’s mother. She had been so happy to find it among Quark’s goods, and proceeded to win it from him in tongo. It was a collection of Trill nursery tales, older than Dax. Jadzia had planned to read from it to their children.

“It’s beautiful.”

“I am glad you like it, as it now belongs to you.”

“Where did she find it?”

“She won it from the Ferengi.”

Parvel eyed the objects he’d given her. “Are Klingons not concerned with a loved one’s belongings, or is it just you?”

“We are less concerned than most species.” There were exceptions, of course, but his people were not known for their sentimentality.

“Are you keeping anything?” Again, Worf felt that she was curious, not judgmental.

“There is nothing I value so highly as my memories or the prospect of reunion in Sto-vo-kor.” He carefully removed the wedding circlet from his bag. “However, I will keep this.”

She hesitantly took it from him. “Jadzia wore this when you got married.”

“Yes. It along with several pictures, reminds me of her.”

Parvel let a tear roll freely down her cheek as she fingered the circlet. “Thank you for showing me.”

“You are welcome. I have also kept her mek’leth and Klingon operas. Her collection is superior to my own,” he admitted. He did not want his wife’s mother to think that he did not miss her every waking moment, just because he missed her as a Klingon instead of a Trill. But that did not seem to be a problem, he was relieved to conclude.

He also kept a piece of pottery that Jadzia had made in the holosuite and programmed the replicator to recreate. It had several explicit, if tender, messages in Klingon, and he did not think it proper to mention this to her mother.

“A mek’leth is a Klingon weapon, correct?”

“Yes. To welcome her into his House, Martok presented Jadzia with a fine mek’leth after our marriage ceremony. I now wield it instead of my own.”

“So a part of her still fights with you?”

“Yes.”

Parvel nodded. “Do you want to have any of the items Jadzia had sent me to keep safe?”

“No. Thank you.” He did not require any objects to keep her memory alive.

“There’s one thing,” the Trill woman said slowly. “I thought you would… let me show you. I took it out.”

She left the room briefly and returned with a small box. “It’s Klingon. I don’t really remember what it is, but I think it’s something special. Curzon wanted Jadzia to have it.”

Worf recognized the symbols on the box at once, but he was still somewhat surprised at what it held. “This is indeed special.”

“What is it?”

He removed the weapon carefully. “A zora’g. A weapon for hunting wild targ. It is thrown.”

Parvel eyed the blade without appreciation. She could not see the sharpness of the blade, the perfect curvature, the masterful way in which the zora’g had been formed. “Are these rare?”

“Zora’gs are not rare. One of this quality, however, is nearly impossible to acquire. This was made by the master craftsman Hapt over eight hundred years ago. His weapons are unmatched, but he made few because of the time he spent laboring over each.”

The zora’g was without a doubt the most perfectly crafted weapon Worf had ever seen. He wondered why Jadzia had never spoken of it.

“Now I understand more,” mused his wife’s mother. “I wondered why Jadzia seemed embarrassed that Curzon left it to her.”

“It is a most extraordinary weapon. I would be honored to take it.”

“It’s all yours. It should belong to someone who appreciates it, and I’m sure Jadzia would have wanted to you have it. Forgive me if I sound naïve, but couldn’t you scan one into a replicator?”

“No. Replicators have many uses, but they produce inferior weapons.”

“Even knives and such?”

“I am not a scientist,” he informed her, “but I am told that the replication process allows for very slight alterations at the molecular level.”

“I thought that made no practical difference.”

“For some things. For others it is noticeable.”

Parvel nodded, evidently done with the subject. Worf marveled once more at the zora’g before replacing it in the box.

“I understand Dax returned to Deep Space Nine.”

“Ezri. Yes.”

“You met her?”

“Yes.” Much against his initial wishes.

“I can only imagine how difficult that was for you. These things can be hard enough for Trill and we’re used to it.”

“It was not easy,” admitted Worf, words that seemed insufficient to express the enormity of their situation. “We parted on good terms, however.”

He did not imagine he would maintain a correspondence with Ezri. She would go on and life her own life, one where he was eventually no more than the memory of a past life, as Trill custom intended. Nevertheless, he believed their amicable parting would have pleased Jadzia.

“What’s she like, Ezri?”

“It is difficult to imagine someone more different from Jadzia.” And therein was the problem. She was not Jadzia, but she carried Jadzia’s memories; part of what had made Jadzia now made Ezri. “She is an honorable woman in her own way.” Though she entirely failed to appreciate Klingon culture.

“I’m sorry, Worf, I didn’t mean to dredge up a difficult topic. It was very selfish of me.”

Worf would not have indulged anyone else with this conversation, but felt he owed it to Jadzia’s mother. “You have the right,” he said.

There were certain details he would share with no one. When Ezri first arrived on Deep Space Nine Worf had wished that Dax had died, if only so he could rest in the finality and not have to face Ezri. It was not honorable and he was not proud of himself. Jadzia had always stressed that Dax’s life was more important than her own. Whether or not Worf agreed was inconsequential.

There was also the matter of theology. If part of Jadzia lived in Dax, could she truly enter Sto-vo-kor? In his darkest moments, before the victory that had secured her right to enter, Worf had doubted. Martok had been helpful when he ascertained the nature of Worf’s concern. “Your wife is dead, Worf,” he had said. “Memories are not a life. We will deal the Dominion a great defeat in Jadzia’s honor and she will join countless warriors before her in Sto-vo-kor.” And when the battle was over Worf felt a measure of peace for the first time since Jadzia died, no longer doubting.

No, such thoughts were not to be shared with Parvel. Instead he remarked, “It is fortunate that Ezri was aboard the _Destiny_.” Because he appreciated now that Jadzia would not have wanted Dax to perish, that she took comfort in the idea of her memories living on through Dax. “She never intended to be joined.”

“A very unusual situation. It was in the news here, but I had a hard time hearing about it.”

“Understandably.”

“I am glad Ezri was around, as you said.” Naturally. Parvel was Trill and this complex business of symbiosis was her culture. Sometimes Worf envied people who were entirely at home in one culture.

“Additionally,” he said, “the malevolent entities which killed Jadzia appear to have been neutralized.”

 “Yes, I read about that. The Pah-Wraiths, something to do with being sealed in the Bajoran Fire Caves, presumably by the now-missing Captain Sisko.”

“Bajoran theology I do not understand, but it gratifies me that Sisko has revenged Jadzia’s death.”

“I never cared for revenge as a philosophy, you know. I try not to dwell on it, but once you lose a child you see the appeal.” Revenge appealed to Worf in general so he didn’t know what to say. Fortunately Parvel spared him an awkward reply by continuing, “You’re a father, so perhaps you can understand. Jadzia was very fond of Alexander.”

Worf was gratified to know Jadzia had spoken of Alexander enough that her mother knew his name even as the knowledge seared him with another wave of grief. “He was fond of her as well. He mourns her.”

“We all grieve differently. It pleases me that you’re honoring Trill customs by hiking the Tenaran Ice Cliffs.”

“Jadzia would have expected no less.” The universe was a place of few certainties. For Worf, this was one of them.

Parvel smiled sadly. “I suppose you’re right. Isn’t the cold bad for Klingons, though?”

“I have brought equipment appropriate for the temperature.” He would not be comfortable except perhaps if he exerted himself enough to generate his own heat, but comfort was not the point of his journey.

In fact, he welcomed the physical discomfort. It would be far, far easier to deal with than the ache in his soul.


End file.
